Sheets of Ash
by Mark Frost

I know that what lies before me is to be the Babel tower of all my life’s work. I shall build it perfectly, for this is to be my world forever.

I grasp the sheets of ash and turn them this way and that, not knowing what it is that is expected from me. M. says that it can be as grand or as simple as I want it to be, just make something perfect and lasting.

I feel out the texture first, massaging the course and fine grain of the ash. I am taking my time with the wood and in the end know that something great and suitable will be created from them.

M. comes in the clear room every so often, criticizes or corrects certain ways I hold the wood, the knife, the compass ruler, etc. He says that although I have a while to finish the patterns and engravings, I don’t have forever, and after saying this, he usually leaves the room.

This coming and going has been a daily ritual for the best part of a year now. I praise M. for being so patient with me. No one but him understands the full weight of such a task, even though everyone, once they have reached a certain age, will be given the same task as I. I try various methods of bringing out the creative muse that I so desperately need to engage this project. So far, my muse is lost.

I stare at the boards from different angles; sometimes I stand at the other end of the room and wince and grimace, and at times I put my eyes so close to the wood that I can feel the texture of the wood on my eyes themselves. M. says that I’d do better to clear my mind and not think about it too much, yet gets upset when he comes in and sees that I’ve made zero progress since his last visit.

I sit in despair for hours on end, trying like mad to find an inspiration. And one day it comes, bleeding across my mind’s theatre screen like angel semen syrup.

I tell M. the next day, excited. He sighs and asks me if I am positive this is what I want to do? I tell him yes and he nods slowly, walking out of the room. I have little time to waste.

The contours of the wood are mesmerizing now; whereas before it was just a grainy texture like leather, like dead life.

I begin to write my memoirs. The wood, each board representing a year or two, is the paper of my soul. The ink is engraving using only the finest of instruments available. Scalpels, safety pins, feather quills, and even pumpkin-carving tools. My mind is a full book, pages erasing from my brain as they are put down onto the sheets of ash.

I begin to lose memories hourly as I describe them on the surface of the wood. I see M. every once in awhile, but I’m much too busy these days to be chatting about with him. The only time I do stop work is to smoke an occasional cigarette or to retain my flow of thoughts.

I cannot decide if the story of my life is going as correctly as it should, but seeing that there is no one else to give advice, I decide to stay on the path I’m on and hope for the best. M. says that I’m not being graded on the task and that I shouldn’t worry too much. I can’t help it. This is to be my crowning achievement, so to speak.

After a few months of vigorous writing and recollecting on my life’s events, I finish writing the last word on the last sheet of ash. The task has been completed and I feel empty. My mind is a complete blank, with the exception of useless knowledge and unimportant memories. I don’t even know what to feel now, now that I am finished writing my life.

M. comes by the next day and tells me that, although unique and well-crafted, my sheets of ash are still not finished. Now, he says, I am to build my home. I look at all the boards and tools left over and I am confused. How could I build a home out of so few of boards? I look at M. and he tells me that it is time to finish my task. He gives me a plastic bag full of nails.

After another day of arranging the boards to fit and using the nails to keep them in place, I finally finish my task.

What is it? I ask M.

He smiles at me and slaps me on the back hard. I briefly lose my breath, but he holds my arm to reassure me he meant no harm in the gesture. I regain my composure some and ask M. again, what is it?

He says that this is my home and that I’ve decorated it quite well. Thanks, I think. He points to the odd shaped box and tells me that the reason I cannot remember anything that was engraved into the boards is that the story itself is no longer mine to remember. He says that when others pass by my home on the way to their destinations, that they will read the story of my life and the memories will belong to them. They are the reason we decorate and customize our homes. These will be our homes for a long, long time.

M. looks at me and, after awhile, tells me that since I am now finished with my appointed task that I can now go home. To the home I have just made, and where I will spend the remainder of my existence. To the home that, to everyone else, is called a coffin.
A coffin by any other name is still a home for the one in which it contains.